


I'll Stick Around

by ApexOnHigh



Category: Homicide: Life on the Street
Genre: M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Non-Consensual Touching, Rape as a show of power, gratuitous references to 90s alternative rock music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 11:39:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11440095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApexOnHigh/pseuds/ApexOnHigh
Summary: “You and I need to come to a morepersonalunderstanding about the way things work here in this town.”





	I'll Stick Around

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IdMonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdMonster/gifts).



> This story is set in the weeks following the events of Season 4's "The Damage Done".

Mike Kellerman hummed along to the song on the radio as he polished the cabin's wood paneling. Sweat had started to bead up on his forehead, but he swiped it away with his arm and kept working. He'd reward himself with a cold shower and a beer when he finished.

Billy Corgan was singing about 1979, but Mike's thoughts were on the here and now, and his plans to trade this old boat in for something newer. Sexier. Something big enough he could consider starting up a side business taking tourists (those people who, for some bizarre reason, actually came to Baltimore by _choice_ ) out and around the bay, fishing or sight-seeing. It was a dream he'd had for a while, a way to make the extra cash he could use while doing something he already enjoyed.

But if he was going to sell his current houseboat—and sell it for a good enough price that he could make a down payment on a larger one—he had to make sure it not only ran its best but looked it, too. Homicide had been keeping him so busy the past few months that he hadn't kept up with general maintenance and upkeep lately like he should. So as late as it was, and with tomorrow a full work day ahead of him, he was pushing to get in at least an hour's solid cleaning before calling it a night.

Some might suggest to him that he was foolish to consider moving up to something bigger, something that would need even _more_ maintenance work. To think about a side business when he could barely keep up with the names in red under his own on the squadroom board. But this old bucket was starting to feel claustrophobic to him, and he could use a new project. A distraction from the job, on those rare days when it didn't demand all his time and concentration.

With the radio going and his thoughts preoccupied with such visions of the future, Mike's usually keen senses for the world around him were preoccupied. So he didn't notice that someone had quietly come onboard until a smooth voice announced, "Well, isn't _this_ cozy."

Mike spun around so fast he caught his elbow on the edge of the kitchenette counter. Swearing at the sharp pain, he suppressed a second profanity when he recognized the figure standing in the entryway of the cabin—looming, actually, so tall the top of his head nearly brushed the low ceiling.

Luther Mahoney.

Mike swallowed and tried to stand a little taller himself. He tried _not_ to panic as he cursed the fact that his gun was nowhere in easy reach. ( _Under the bed, goddammit..._ ) Not that Luther was immediately threatening him, except with his mere presence. But that was more than enough. Mike knew a cold-blooded killer lurked behind that smooth and polished exterior. Luther's wide smile was like a shark's, menacing and deadly.

And like with a shark, Mike knew he couldn't let his fear or any weakness show. "You know, you're supposed to ask for permission to come on board," he said, trying to sound as cool and unaffected as possible.

"My apologies. I confess I'm not familiar with the...intricacies of nautical etiquette," Luther replied, not sounding the slightest bit unfazed—nor apologetic about anything.

"So what the hell are you doing here?" _And how did you find me?_ Mike wanted to ask, but he imagined Luther Mahoney could find out anything he wanted to know in this city.

"Curiosity," Luther said, his eyes inventorying the surroundings. "You've left me intrigued, Mike Kellerman, since our first chance meeting."

 _Chance meeting, my ass._ Mike bit his tongue and let Luther continue, "I thought, you and I...we could do well to get to know each other better."

"Really," Mike replied, with a smile of his own. "Then how about you come down to the station with me? We can have a nice little chat there."

Luther let out a sharp laugh. "You mean, an interrogation? In what I know you Homicide detectives lovingly call ‘The Box'? Oh, I don't think so." Luther took a step closer, his eyes now focused squarely on Mike. The last time they had been this close had been on the steps outside that youth center, a few weeks before. At that time Mike had been curious, cocky...and pissed the hell off at the man who had put so many names in red on that board. The pressure from Gee and the rest of his squad to close those cases, get the bastard responsible had been intense, driven Mike almost to the breaking point of frustration. And he'd stood there, frustrated yet fascinated, trying to intimidate while being treated like nothing but an irritating gnat, barely worth the drug lord's direct gaze.

But now Luther's gaze didn't waver, and it made Mike distinctly uncomfortable. He wanted to look away but he knew to be the first one to flinch would be to admit defeat. "I think..." Luther began, pausing with his lips parted, tongue slowly running along his upper teeth. Mike found his eyes following the path of that tongue until Mahoney continued, "You and I need to come to a more _personal_ understanding about the way things work here in this town."

"I know plenty about how things work. I'm a cop. You're a killer. You're _scum_ , no matter how you try to dress yourself up in designer clothes and fancy talk, how many ‘good deeds' you claim to do for your community while at the same time you're poisoning it."

Luther just shook his head, looking down at Mike like a disappointed parent ready to scold a petulant child. "See? That's what I mean. You don't understand me at all. You don't get it that your badge, your so-called ‘authority'? It all means nothing to me. The only law that matters in this town is mine, the one that I write and enforce. I protect _my_ community, _my_ people...and they protect me in return. If you stand in my way, well...unfortunately chances are you won't be left standing for very long at all."

Mike narrowed his eyes. "Is that a threat?"

"No, it's a promise. And I sincerely don't want to have to see it through." Luther paused, and reached forward to place his hand on Mike's cheek. "Pretty face like yours wouldn't look so handsome stone cold in the morgue."

For a moment that touch left Mike paralyzed, mesmerized when it fell in combination with that voice, those eyes, that imposing presence. Then he snapped out of it violently, slapping the unwelcome hand away even as he realized he was now trapped, the kitchenette counter behind his back and Luther right in front of him. "Get your hands off me and get the _fuck_ off my boat," he hissed.

Mike heard a loud _click_ over the sound of the radio, which was now droning on about a "stupid girl". His attention went to the entryway of the cabin, where another figure now stood—this one's considerable width making up for a lack of height. One of Luther's bodyguards, Mike recognized, and now he stood there with a gun raised and pointed in Mike's direction.

 _Don't believe in anything_  
_That you can't break..._

"It's all right, Wilson," Mahoney said in a calm tone, raising that offending hand now in a gesture of peace. As if he were fucking Salvator Mundi, savior of the world instead of an angel of death in an expensive suit. Wilson backed off—a step—but kept his gun out where Mike could see it. Luther turned his focus back to Mike, the shark's smile returned. "You see? This is what I mean. You don't appreciate—or _respect_ —that I'm the one in charge around here. Not you, nor any of your other friends in uniform."

"So...what are you gonna do about it?" Mike asked, now hesitant. Cautious. He knew he was cornered, even as he tried to think of another weapon he could use if need be. A kitchen knife? The drawer was right behind him...but it wouldn't be much use against Wilson's gun. The spray can of wood polish? Might blind Mahoney temporarily, but then he still had the bodyguard to disarm.

No, he had been caught unprepared and without ready defense, and could only pray that Mahoney was only here to try to scare him, intimidate him. His words suggested he wasn't looking to kill Mike tonight, so...

"I'm not going to do anything," Luther said, "but _you're_ going to do something for me."

"I won't be a dirty cop for you." Mike had seen enough of that in Arson. He'd sworn he'd never go down that road; his pride and integrity mattered too much.

"That's quite all right. You can serve me in other ways. Like...on your knees. Right now."

Mike heard the words but didn't quite register their meaning. Not at first. Not until he watched as Luther's hands went to the front of his pants, unzipping the fly. As Wilson moved to raise his gun, once more, pointing it with no uncertainty toward Mike's head.

Mike swallowed. _This isn't happening this can't be happening_ started running through his mind, only he knew it was. He wasn't dreaming; his mind wouldn't even torment him with a nightmare like this. Luther Mahoney was on his boat, standing right in front of him, one hand on his exposed penis and his predatory smile now a leer. "Don't disappoint me, Mikey. Let me see you put that smart mouth of yours to good use, so that Wilson doesn't have to ruin that pretty face...permanently."

He had no choice. Mike knew it. Not if he wanted to live to see the next day. Not if he ever wanted to see this son of a bitch get what he deserved. That thought— _that_ promise and his hatred for the man in front of him—was the only thing that moved Mike to comply. He otherwise couldn't think about what he was about to do, what he was being forced to do. If he did he might lose his sanity. He slid down on rubbery legs, to his knees. Luther's cock, half-hard, was there right in front of his face, the musky scent of his maleness filling Mike's nose.

_I'm dead if I don't do this. Christ, maybe being dead would be better._

"Go on, Mikey. I know you know what to do next. Unless you'd rather have Wilson's gun down your throat."

Mike knew of course what Luther wanted, but no, he had never done this before. Not willingly, not under duress, not ever. But now here he was, either about to suck cock or suck down a bullet.

_And then I'll never have the satisfaction of putting a bullet in this bastard myself._

So he lifted his head and parted his lips, barely enough to take the tip of Luther's penis between them.

"That's my good boy," Luther said, his words mocking, almost more cruel than the act he was forcing Mike to commit. He reached down with his free hand to stroke Mike's hair, to also keep his head right where he wanted it as he pushed into Mike's mouth deeper. Mike struggled not to gag at the uncomfortableness of it, of feeling Luther's cock grow harder, stirring to life against his lips, his tongue. He tried not to think about any of it, just to get through this as fast as possible.

And yet his throat seized up, threatening revolt. The revulsion, the burning sense of humiliation grew stronger as Luther moved both of his hands to Mike's head, holding it in place while he encouraged, "Open wider, Mikey. You can do it."

No, he couldn't, he wanted to scream. This wasn't natural to him. This wasn't anything he wanted. Certainly not with a scumbag like Mahoney. Mike had to keep telling himself that, even as he thought back to the afternoon of that first confrontation, that feeling of... _something_...unwanted, unwarranted, that he had felt pass between them. That something which had made it so hard to move away, to look away, from those dark eyes and this man who moved and spoke with such grace and confidence. 

No. That hadn't meant he wanted  _this._

Mike struggled to get a breath, to not choke or spit up as that cock rammed the back of his mouth, Luther fucking his face without mercy. Moisture ran into his eyes, and Mike couldn't be sure if it was sweat or tears. Didn't want to think about it. Couldn't, he couldn't do anything but struggle for a gasping breath whenever Luther gave him even a moment's reprieve.

"Do you like that?" Luther taunted, as he held Mike's head back, tugging him by his hair. Mike didn't answer—not with what he truly wanted to say, at least—so Luther yanked harder. "Answer me."

Mike had the feeling Luther could yank his head back hard enough to snap his neck if he so wished, so he forced the word past his wet, swollen lips. "Y-yes."

"What was that, my boy? You like sucking my cock?"

"I like...s-sucking your cock."

"I thought you would. Now open."

Mike tried to focus on the music, the radio. Anything else. And yet even the music seemed to be mocking him, the Chili Peppers singing about a "Love Rollercoaster" while Mike's stomach churned with nausea. It seemed to go on for an eternity, a humiliating endless assault while his legs grew numb, his jaw ached, it became harder to catch a gulp of air. But finally—with Luther holding him still, Mike squirming at the pressure to swallow what he could not take—he felt a warm rush fill his mouth. He swallowed on instinct, necessity, even as it filled him with disgust.

At least it meant this was over. He hoped. Prayed.

And yet it was almost worse, in the moments afterwards, having Luther continue to caress his hair in some sick display of...affection? Ownership? Like a master petting an obedient dog while Mike only wanted to be sick. "That was very nice, Michael," Luther purred. "I knew you'd...come around." Luther finally let go of him to adjust himself, zipping up his pants. Mike stayed where he was, desperate to remain as stoic and defiant as he could. He didn't want to look at Luther but he forced himself to. He wouldn't let his embarrassment or humiliation show.

Not yet. Not in front of him. And yet the way Luther looked at him now made him flush red.

"Next time we'll see how else you can be of service. It'll be...fun. Don't you agree?"

Mike said nothing. Luther chuckled, nodded his head at Wilson who only snorted and turned to leave. "See you around," Luther said, by way of goodbye.

"You can count on it," Mike muttered under his breath. And then Mahoney was gone, and Mike slid down to the floor.

 _Breathe_.

_Don't think about it._

_Don't think._

And yet when he swallowed all he could taste was Luther. Another wave of nausea passed through him and he doubled-over, but nothing followed. He staggered to get to his feet, to reach for the bottle of Jack sitting on top of the fridge. Maybe he could drink away the taste of him, drink until he passed out and, if he were lucky, drink until he couldn't remember a thing that had happened tonight.

If only he could. But he wasn't sure there was enough alcohol in this boat—in this city—that could make him forget it all.

 _I've taken all and I've endured_  
_One day it all will fade I'm sure_

Mike yanked the radio's electric cord out of the socket and stumbled toward the bed, bottle in hand. One thing was for certain—if he hadn't been sure about selling this boat before, now it was a necessity.

And so was killing Luther Mahoney.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Short lyric quotes are from "Stupid Girl" by Garbage, and "I'll Stick Around" by the Foo Fighters. Music was always so integral to H:LOTS that they just seemed to seep into this story as it was being written.


End file.
